I think I smell the sunsetThink I feel the close of dayClean shaven correspondentsAre all crowded at the gateSmell the oil from their torchesTheir voices growing more irateShepherds' staves are crookedLeading every crooked wayAll the sheep block their doorsThey're pulling down their shadesThe faithful looking in their mirrorsThe fateful growing old and gray

But I look at YouYour eyes are clear and brightI see your faceIt's an amazing sightYour glory, LordIs still a burning lightThe light that all our faithless handsCould never dim

Think I feel the sunsetThink I smell the death of dayPeople laughing at a funeralPeople dancing at a wakeAnd all the seasons blend togetherThis birds loosing feathers everyday

And everybody's tired and scaredAnd begging unbeliefBut You have yet to break a sweatNo You're not afraidYou're not afraidYou're not afraid

Think I feel the sunsetThink I feel the close of dayShepherds' staves are crookedLeading every crooked wayPeople laughing at a funeralAnd people dancing at a wake